


Fluid Dynamics

by lovesrainscent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrainscent/pseuds/lovesrainscent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Potions,” he thought.  “It all boils down to an appreciation of that most beautiful of mechanics, fluids.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluid Dynamics

_Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, JK Rowling does and I stand to make no profit from the posting of this story._

Fluid Dynamics

“Potions,” he thought. “It all boils down to an appreciation of that most beautiful of mechanics, fluids.” He almost allowed a thin smile at his own weak pun but then caught himself as he remembered where he was.

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was bustling today. The entire Weasley clan, sans that Ministry rat seemed to be here as well as every available member of the Order. Dumbledore was preparing to address them as they launched their new campaign against Voldemort. Severus sighed to himself, thinking longingly of his dungeons, where he could be left alone with his cauldrons to simply work.

He loved his work, the steady hand and precision it required, the breathtaking results it could produce even the frustrating setbacks which often led to new discoveries. But more than anything else, he loved the motions of the liquids themselves. He found the ripples, flows and currents fascinating, enthralling. He could stand for hours, bewitching himself with the whorls of colors the addition of each ingredient produced or the elegant wisps of vapor that arched longing skyward, escaping earthly constraints to become…something else.

Even as a child he had been entranced by the beauty of the flows one encountered in day to day life - waves breaking on a beach, ripples from a shallow brook as it skittered across rocks, or the comforting swirls the milk produced as he added it to his tea each morning. Now that he was older he began to have the faintest understanding of why he was enamored with them. The simple, elegant beauty was a reminder that there was something beyond the Here and Now, something greater than Dumbledore with his Order, or The Dark Lord and his Deatheaters. 

Call it, her, what you will – Nature, Logos, Sophia, she existed and she played ever the coquette with him – beckoning him to her with exquisite white hands as he added the milk to the tea or flitting away just out of reach as he watched puffs of vapor spread themselves on the air to nothing above his softly simmering cauldron.

She existed and she laughed with the sound of tinkling bells at the Seriousness of These Proceedings; at the Dire Situation in Which the Order Now Found Itself. She existed and she reminded him by her ceaseless motion that this too would pass. 

He studied the crowd, milling about, some seeking chairs, others leaning against a wall or sturdy piece of furniture. Molly Weasley bustled about, ensuring that everyone was well fed with their thirst quenched. “The condemned ate a hearty meal,” he mused wryly to himself. They rippled and flowed amongst themselves in a current of their own, hardly aware of its existence. 

Dumbledore stood at the front of the room and a hush fell as he began to address the crowd. Severus listened with half-detached interest – he’d been briefed by Albus the night before, knew by rote the role he was to play, knew the danger it involved. His gaze landed on Potter and his friend Weasley. But did they? Wars were planned by old men and fought by young men. This one was no different. It was always the young men who bled and died for the noble causes.

They were too caught up in the bravado of it all. The fool Potter was prepared to die for the Order never realizing that might not be what was required of him at all. His thrice cursed Gryffindor nobility had nearly been their downfall in the Ministry that night. Could Potter let Weasley die? . Or any of the others? Could Potter accept that some might, no would die in order for him to be in a position where he could face the Dark Lord as the prophecy foretold?

Potter was obsessed with that prophecy to the exclusion of all else. It was this obsession that would be their undoing of this Severus was certain. The boy was so certain that he and he alone must destroy Voldemort that he failed to see what the total cost might be among their numbers. Supreme confidence bred supreme blunders in Severus’ opinion.

Potter needed something…something to force him to see beyond this final confrontation. Because if he didn’t see it now, if he didn’t know it in his gut before going into this battle then the Dark Lord would win by simply picking them off one by one in front of Potter.

He searched the room. He needed something…

He smiled then, thin and cold. His mistress was a tricksome bitch.

A single drop of water, when it enters a shallow pool, makes a characteristic crown-shaped splash. How often had he observed this and marveled at the sheer, reproducible beauty of it when adding to a potion or watching raindrops on a puddle? And was there ever any more shallow pool than that of teenage emotion?

There were three of them - Potter, Weasley and Miss Granger. And the three of them danced around the issue like autumn leaves in a dust devil. 

What happens after the war? 

Because it was as plain as the nose on his face that the three of them were destined to be a classic love triangle even if they couldn’t see it yet. They couldn’t see it because they wouldn’t let themselves think past the war. But they had to or it was already lost the moment one of the three fell. 

Albus was giving his concluding remarks. The room was solemn with the enormity of it all. He acted then, striding over to her. Startled, Potter and Weasley stepped back just a pace. Seeking to put a military flourish on things he gallantly clicked his heels together and gave a curt nod as he spoke her name. “Miss Granger?”

She had been half-rising from her seat, gathering parchments when he offered her his hand. She left the parchments and straightened, rising from her chair to stand in front of him. “Yes, Professor?” Her voice mildly curious, she left her hand in his.

He looked in her eyes and found them extraordinarily warm and soft. The slight arch of one brow gave her a quizzical look that was not altogether unfamiliar from his classroom lectures. Unthinkingly he rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin at the back of her hand. He reached to take her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand and tip her head up. All eyes in the room were now upon the two of them. He leaned nearer to her and spoke softly but clearly so that those closest to her could hear as well. “Ave Hermione, morituri te salutant.”

And he kissed her. Thankfully she didn’t push away. She tilted her head and closed her eyes and he kissed her softly and sweetly. For a brief instant he felt her other hand at his waist as if she didn’t know whether to draw him to her or not. But she didn’t push away.

He pulled back from her, looking into the deep pools that were her eyes and gave another short nod. Behind her he saw Potter and Weasley both open-mouthed, gaping in indignation and confusion. He kissed her hand and released it then turned to take his leave of them all. As he turned he felt the flick of the corners of his robes and smiled at the thought of the tiny vortices they generated.

“Confront it now, you stupid clods,” he thought as he walked to the door, robes billowing behind him, “and not when one of the three of you is cold and dying, causing the other two to falter and bring ruin on us all.”

Although, he realized somewhat uncomfortably, that he would just as soon it were not Hermione to fall.

He thought he heard laughter or tinkling silver bells in the distance but he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.


End file.
